


Discipline

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Glimpses of the Heart [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attraction, F/F, exercise, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Always in control, Anthea treats her jogging like just one more duty to help her maintain her facade as the perfect PA. But as time passes she slowly becomes enamoured of a young woman she finds struggling to improve herself.





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the inclusion of one or two "swear" words, I've rated this T. 
> 
> Thought of this while walking yesterday, and had to write it out on my phone last night. Briefly edited, hope there are no glaring mistakes.

            I see you. I see your struggle and your effort. The shame and inadequacy, the growing strength and the flashes of resentment and bitterness at the isolation—I witness it all. The quick cut of your eyes as I quietly call, "Behind," as I jog pass.

 

            I feel you. The quiet regard of your eyes (are they brown? Blue? Hazel?) as I circle the path. The slightly envious perusal of my lean legs, my strong muscles, my effortless pace touches me almost physically. I feel the quiet pride as you increase your pace, your distance. As the weight begins to melt and you gain confidence I feel your satisfaction

 

            I never talk to anyone. I'm aloof. _The stuck-up bitch_ , I believe some of the young mums who occasionally power-walk the path call me. It's not an unfair assessment. I'm not welcoming. I do not pause to gossip, exchange compliments on running gear, or waste time on frivolous conversation. I run and I run and I never stop to say hello.

 

            I want to say hello to you. I want to tell you that I'm proud of your accomplishment—this sounds as if I have had a hand in your progress, which of course I haven’t. But I’ve been there as a silent cheerleader, urging you on. Does anyone tell you they are proud of how hard you’ve worked this past year? I hope so. I hope there is someone who rejoices in your improved health, the increased activity, the bright smile that now blooms on your face when you meet a stranger’s eyes and smile.

 

            I wish to tell you that your new athletic gear makes you look like an adorable, curvy bumblebee. The line of bright yellow which begins under your bum and swoops around your thigh, wraps around under your knee and ends at your ankle draws the eye down the delicious curves of your strong legs. The panel of yellow on your black jacket begins at the small of your back and arches up toward the collar. It draws the eye from the newly emerging waist and up to the nape of your neck. There are three tiny moles there, just there at the start of your spine, did you know?

 

            I've caught the smell of lavender shampoo from your strawberry-blonde ponytail as I pass you. Seen the quiet gleam of nude polish on your nails, and the subtle shine of tiny diamonds at your lobes. All these tiny details I’ve hoarded and treasured, like a dragon gloating over its gold.

 

            I'm becoming obsessed with discovering what color your eyes are.

 

            If I were smart I would find another park to run in. I wouldn't try to pursue an interest in you. I am twenty-seven; I have dedicated myself to my career at the expense of a social life or personal interests, much as a nun gives herself up to God. That's not to say I haven't had encounters.

 

            But never anyone who fascinates me as you do.

 

            And now here you are; in line in front of me at Costa. I haven't seen you in a week (where were you?) and in the interim you've cut your hair at your nape. The heart-breaking moles on your nape are framed by wisps of hair as fine as a baby's, and the same lavender shampoo teases my nose. Today you aren't wearing athletic gear; instead you're wearing a grey tweed skirt, a pale pink V-necked jumper over a darker pink button-down. You look like a delicious librarian with dark-framed glasses perched on your nose, which turns up adorably at the end.

 

            Sod it. "Oh hello," I say guilelessly, as you half-turn in line, attention drawn by a crying toddler at a nearby table, "Don't I know you from the park?"

 

            You turn and I'm struck by the freshness of your face, the kindness of your puzzled smile. Behind your glasses your eyes are a bewitching pale green. "Hi," you say a bit shyly, brushing your long, blunt-cut fringe away from your eyes and tucking a strand behind one ear, "The park, yes...I've seen you running there I think."

 

            You offer a polite hand, and my heart leaps in my chest, betraying my cool equanimity. "Anthea," I manage, losing my breath and my famous composure as your soft, warm palm cradles my hand gently. I'm further lost when you smile sweetly, and say, with the faintest of French inflections, "Sylvie. Nice to meet you, Anthea."

 

            "You as well," I say, drowning in your eyes. "I…was just getting some tea, would you care to join me?" And I forget all about my boss and his impatient expectation that I will be at the early morning weekend meeting he has called because he has no life of his own outside the office.

 

            I won't be following in his footsteps, not in this instance. Not now that I've found you. 

 

 


End file.
